I thought I knew the part about death, you

Don’t get out alive and maybe there’s a heaven or

The yell of a baby you are suddenly the soul of, or dust

To dust and peaceful slumber non-awareness, or

The flight of a heron on its way between this and that

World, your neck silly-long anachronistic

Your cry the call of worlds-between. Now,

Since Ian’s passing, and Elaine’s,  I wonder the season

It’ll be, and whether it is true death is atonement

For sins, and whether thoughts and faltering non-actions count.

I wanted a smoke on the train so bad

My legs locked together, like an icicle, an indifferent sun

About to shatter it in jagged pieces on the ground.

I thought of the service, Ezra means he whose purpose is to help

Others, we were told.  Well have I? Did I make that this

Life’s purpose?  I did, nearly 13 years ago, but the process

Means accepting love doesn’t always have hands.


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